


Rest Your Weary Soul

by andquitefrankly



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, HRBB14, I promise, M/M, Red String of Fate, XD, as a baby, as a miner, as a war doctor, as a whatever i wanted to imagine him as, m-socks amazing prompt, so... spoiler alert?, thorin as a german wwi soldier, thorin dies a whole bunch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 05:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2762129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andquitefrankly/pseuds/andquitefrankly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins is cursed to walk this earth, witnessing the brief life and inevitable death of Thorin Oakenshield. Tied to together by fate, Bilbo remembers the the Dwarf prince and his life as a Hobbit, but that does not exist in this world. He's alone.<br/>But hope is not something he's willing to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is only one of my two reverse bang fics! M-sock is my muse, in so many ways. She's amazing, so thank you sock for coming up with this amazing prompt.  
> (i'm kind of the queen of fluff, so this was a heartbreaker to write. but hopefully i succeeded)  
> Enjoy!  
> [Art by glorious m-sock here.](http://m-sock.tumblr.com/post/105049296997/art-by-m-sock-rest-your-weary)

**1842**

The first time it happened, Bilbo swore it was a dream.

A cacophony of sounds, sights, and smells barraged him. He couldn’t move in his clothes, feet pinched in unfamiliar boots and monochromatic colors on his body.

Then suddenly there was a shout and a familiar face. “Thorin,” Bilbo whispered, breath expelling from his lungs as he was thrown backwards and onto the cobbled street, a horse cantering past, neighing loudly.

“You fool,” Thorin – it must be him, for Bilbo would recognize that sharp nose, that stern brow anywhere – said as he lay atop him. He pushed himself up, dusting off his suit and coat with a  brusque slap of his hand.

Bilbo could do nothing but gape. He was so tall, so regal, so alive. “Thorin,” Bilbo repeated, hand reaching out towards him. Mistaking the motion, Thorin took hold of it and roughly pulled Bilbo to his feet. “How?” Bilbo asked, surprised by Thorin’s ample size, the thinness of his body.

This was no dwarf, by any means. Hair shorn short and no trace of a beard, Bilbo was almost convinced he was wrong. It could not be Thorin. And yet those eyes were the same piercing blue Bilbo had spent many a night trying not to lose himself in.

“Watch your feet,” Thorin growled, turning his back on Bilbo and returning to his business, crossing the busy street, wary of the horses and carriages.

“No,” Bilbo muttered, following Thorin with his eyes. He couldn’t lose him, not now that he’d found him. “Thorin!” he yelled after him, pushing past curious onlookers, stumbling over his leather bound toes.

And then that’s when it happened.

Thorin turned at the call of his name, not seeing the runaway horse galloping towards him. Bilbo could only watch in horror as Thorin fell to the street, bones and body crushed.

Screams pierced the silence in Bilbo’s mind. He could do nothing but watch on in terror, jostled by concerned citizens. All he could see was the blood, staining his once clean shirt, pooling onto the dusty street.

“Call the doctor!” A man cried, kneeling by his side as a woman swooned some feet away, a man – her husband, most likely – held onto her elbow, keeping her on her two feet.

“He’s dead,” another man declared.

Bilbo let out a sob, staring into those blank eyes. He was dead.

Thorin was dead.

* * *

**1849**

The second time, Bilbo considered it a coincidence. It was the only possibility.

To think that he had to witness Thorin’s death a second time; it was easier to think it a coincidence than accept it as fact.

Years had passed since Bilbo had seen Thorin bleeding out on the street, white clothes forever stained red. In that time, Bilbo had tried to learn about this world he had fallen into.

It was vastly different than the Shire, Erebor – than all of Middle Earth combined. It was a world solely of man, where no magic could breathe, let alone live. It was a world in which the air was pungent and thick with dirt and smoke. Nothing as pleasant as a wood burning stove, but of machines grinding together for some greater purpose Bilbo could not comprehend.

He had found himself a small house at the edge of the city, just far enough from the factories that had crept up overnight, dirtying the air and making monsters of laborers.

Bilbo was thinking of moving to the country, where he could feel the soft brush of grass beneath his feet once more, away from the cries of underfed children and the cobbled pavement.

It was as he was heading back home from a brisk early walk, the factory whistle had yet to blow, calling the workers to their jobs, when Bilbo stumbled upon him.

He heard a soft cry, a whimper, really, and Bilbo looked to an empty alleyway, still dark. Bilbo stopped mid-stride, reminding himself that this was a dangerous city, and no doubt someone was waiting to capture Bilbo and kill him.

He heard the sound again and Bilbo took a hesitant step forward. “Hello?” he asked. “Anyone there?”

All that was returned was a sniffle and cough, and Bilbo felt it was his duty. If it was a trap, so be it. He didn’t know what he was doing in this world, or what his purpose was. If he had to go, then at least he was killed in an attempt to help.

The further he walked into the alleyway, the more certain Bilbo was that it wasn’t a trap at all. Trash filled the alley, from abandoned boots and rope, to dead animals and old rotten food. Bilbo covered his nose, cursing the stench of this city.

A small hiccough emanated from a thick sack and Bilbo found himself on his knees, rooting through the heaps of newspapers and planks of wood, only to be faced with a babe no older than six months. The child blinked up at Bilbo, it’s deep blue eyes peering out of its cloth prison.

Bilbo gasped, nearly dropping the child. He knew those eyes, that heap of hair. “Thorin?” he whispered, clutching the child to his chest.

He was sickly pale, and practically skin and bones, taking in rattling breaths. Who could possibly abandon a baby on the street, as if it were a sack of trash. There were orphanages where one could take unwanted children, though Bilbo had seen these orphanages first hand and shuddered at the thought.

Most of the children ended back on the streets, clothes dirtied and bellies empty. But this child… he was filthy, reeking of his own waste, throat no doubt hoarse from crying.

Bilbo cradled him as he stepped out of the alleyway, rushing home. “Thorin,” Bilbo said again, fingers lightly tracing over the baby’s features. Thorin barely whimpered, closing his eyes at the cushioning warmth.

“Don’t sleep,” Bilbo begged, gently nudging him awake. “You’ve got to eat.” He struggled with the decision to put him down, feeling that Thorin felt safer in his arms, seeing as he had been abandoned who knew how long.

He struggled to fill a cup with water, hoping that the baby knew how to drink properly, finding that he couldn’t, water spilling over his face. Thorin’s face scrunched up and began to bawl.

Bilbo grabbed a handkerchief and doused it in water, putting it to Thorin’s mouth to suck on. Thorin quickly quieted, and Bilbo felt immense relief. Perhaps he was going to be alright.  

Throat no longer a burden, Thorin fussed and kicked, his small stomach grumbling for food. Bilbo wasn’t sure if he had anything to feed a babe, and he wandered into his pantry, searching for something edible. He stopped after a moment, realizing that Thorin probably hadn’t eaten in days and his stomach could only handle so much.

Finally feeling as if he had a hold on the situation, Bilbo grabbed a piece of bread and soaked it in sweet milk, handing it off to Thorin to suck and chew.

He held him tightly in his lap, watching him eat slowly, spongy residue of his meal sticking to his cheeks. “I’m going insane,” Bilbo muttered. What if this wasn’t Thorin at all. He was lonely, and rather than accepting the fact that he had found an abandoned child, Bilbo had given him a name and a place in his heart.

There were nights, lying in his bed, blankets pulled tautly to his chin, when he’d slowly drift to sleep and memories would wash over him like a tidal wave.

It was always the same.

Thorin, lying pale and cold in a tent, blood oozing from his wounds, his breath a rattle. He’d reach out his hand to Bilbo, and the hobbit would take it, pressing a kiss to those thick and battle hardened fingers.

“Don’t,” Bilbo would say, tears streaming down his face. “You must live. See Erebor rise again.”

He’d offer a weak smile and Bilbo’s soft cries turned to loud sobs. He couldn’t live knowing Thorin was not in his life. That confounded dwarf. Bilbo knew he’d do anything, anything at all to let Thorin live, even if it meant Bilbo couldn’t be in his life.

He’d offer his very soul, his happiness; he’d curse the Valar and topple cities, if only to know Thorin would live to take another breath.

That was usually when he’d wake, drenched in sweat and heart pounding, as if he were running from something dark and fearsome, not merely weeping at Thorin’s side.

The baby coughed, tossing his bread to the ground and Bilbo rocked him in his arms. He was filthy, and no doubt needed a bath. But what was Bilbo to do? He didn’t know how to take care of a child.

He’d seek a medical professional.

“Hush now,” Bilbo told Thorin, wrapping him in soft linens, and washing his face. “We’re going to get you as right as rain.”

Bilbo pulled on his coat and tucked Thorin underneath before heading back into town, knocking on the door of the closest doctor. The door creaked open and the doctor’s wife stood there, sighing at Bilbo’s anxious state.

“Quick as you can,” she said, stepping out of Bilbo’s way as he made his way into her home. “No need to let the cold in.” Bilbo smiled graciously at her as she asked, “What seems to be the trouble?”

Bilbo simply unbuttoned his coat to show the sickly and pale Thorin huddled against his chest. “You poor thing,” she said, leading them to the parlor and stepping out to get her husband.

The old doctor walked in, taking in the state of his patient and guardians. “What’s this, then?”

Bilbo pulled Thorin out for inspection, the infant beginning to cry once more. “I found him,” Bilbo told the doctor, watching nervously as the doctor’s wife took Thorin from him. “Out with the trash. I gave him water and food.”

“Rightly so,” the doctor approved, examining Thorin. Thorin coughed something fierce and the doctor took a step back. He and his wife shared a look.

“What?” Bilbo asked, hands nervously twisting. “What’s wrong?”

The doctor sighed, grabbing Thorin and putting him in a basket as a makeshift cradle. “It’s best you leave the child here,” the doctor said, gentle as can be.

“Why? What’s wrong with him?”

“Tuberculosis,” the doctor proclaimed. “He’s far along. No doubt that’s why he was left for dead.” Thorin gurgled, tiny hands exploring the basket with interest, every now and then breaking out into a horrid cough. Bilbo should have noticed the symptoms before.

“Can you save him?” Bilbo asked.

“I’m sorry,” was the doctor’s reply. “We can only watch over him.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo said. “His name’s Thorin.”

The doctor’s wife nodded, putting a reassuring arm around Bilbo, leading him towards the kitchen and setting him down in a seat. Before he knew it, a cup of tea had been put into his hand, and Bilbo found the heat soothing.

He looked to Thorin, nestled softly in his basket, coughing up a lung. He couldn’t die. He was too young, too precious; he had a whole life to live and it was unjust for his life to end so soon. “It’s best if you go home,” the doctor said, patting him gently on his arm. “There’s nothing to do for him.”

Bilbo nodded, setting his tea aside and headed towards Thorin, intercepted by the doctor’s wife. “What are you doing?”

“We’re leaving,” Bilbo stated.

“The child should stay here,” the doctor said. “He’ll most likely pass in the night.”

They expected him to abandon the child! Bilbo had never been more insulted in his life. If Thorin was doomed to die tonight, Bilbo would not be leaving his side, and he said so, planting himself in a chair by Thorin’s side.

He died just before dawn.


	2. Chapter 2

**1885**

Bilbo had always considered himself an intelligent hobbit. He was a renowned scholar throughout the Shire. His library was one of the largest and his intellect was outmatched by none.

In this world, however, Bilbo felt like an abandoned fauntling, unable to survive with no one there to guide him. Twice now he had found Thorin, and twice he had lost him.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Bilbo had the niggling feeling that this was his punishment. But punishment for what? How it irked not to remember.

Could he recall why he had been banished to this world, Bilbo would greatly accept his fate, for surely it was well earned. But this was torture. Every year ticked by without cause nor reason. The city grew around him, always changing.

And yet Bilbo remained the same. No new lines on his face, no gray hairs, now new aches or pains that came with aging.

He was the only constant in this world.

 “Excuse me,” a small boy said, looking down from his window at Bilbo, his arms dangling down and a wide smile on his face. “Mr. Gardener!”

Bilbo looked up from the bush he was trimming, wiping his brow with a dirtied handkerchief. “Good morning,” Bilbo called back. “And how may I be of assistance, young master?”

“May I pick some flowers?” he asked.

“Why should I let you?”

The boy pouted. “You work for me,” he complained. “So you have to do what I say.”

“Master Thurston,” Bilbo chided. “I’ll come up there and box your ears, don’t think I won’t.”

Thurston yelped, ducking below the window sill so Bilbo couldn’t see him. “You can’t do that,” he shouted back. “I’ll tell mama on you.”

“And Mistress Ackerley will agree that I was within my rights,” Bilbo replied, putting his shears down and searched his pockets for his pipe. “Are you coming down, or aren’t you?”

“Yes, Mr. Baggins, sir!”

Bilbo chuckled to himself as he watched the boy duck out of the window, no doubt running through the halls in his rush to the garden.

Though once a gentlehobbit, this was not a world in which one could remain idle, and Bilbo entertained himself as a gardener. He was taught by his mother and father before him, as well as from the old Gaffer. They had all agreed he had a green thumb, and what had once been an idle hobby became his only means of survival.

He had wandered from estate to estate, claiming experience at the previous household, but never the one before that for he had spent many long years there and had not aged. It was a risk he was willing to take, as long as he had a roof over his head and food to feed his belly.

It wasn’t much of a life, but it was all he had.

Young Thurston ran towards Bilbo, a smile on his face. He had the biggest blue eyes Bilbo had ever seen, with hair as dark as night. He was a beautiful boy and Bilbo knew that in time, he would be a most heinous heartbreaker.

“Mr. Gardner,” Thurston said, huffing and puffing. “I wish to inspect the garden.”

“You may call me Bilbo,” Bilbo told him, not for the first time, nor the last. Thurston made a face at him and Bilbo knew it was not likely to happen. He enjoyed calling him Mr. Gardener far too much.

“And when I finish, Mr. Gardener,” Thurston continued, “You may assist me in my bouquet.”

“What is this bouquet for?” Bilbo asked, following Thurston as he inspected the flowers, making sure he didn’t step on any of his plants. He worked hard on the garden and he didn’t need the boy to ruin his livelihood.

Thurston stared thoughtfully at one of the rose bushes, head tilted pensively. “Father’s coming home,” he said. “You haven’t met father, have you?”

Bilbo had not. Mistress Ackerley had hired him, admitting that she admired the work he had done at the Lockhart manor, and that she was in desperate need of a gardener. Her husband was away on business but she wanted the garden to be in full bloom upon his arrival.

She visited with Bilbo every morning, checking up on his progress and enjoying the flowers in full bloom. She was gone for the day, leaving Thurston and his sisters in the care of his governess.

“I haven’t,” Bilbo agreed.

“Father loves the garden,” Thurston told him. “He spends most of the morning walking down the paths, but the last gardener was fired for stealing. You’re not going to rob us in the middle of the night, are you Mr. Gardener?”

“I’m not a burglar,” Bilbo huffed. The cheek of the lad.

“I thought as much,” Thurston deflated, genuinely upset that Bilbo was not going to rob his family blind. Bilbo would never understand children. “I want to give him flowers so he’ll know how hard you worked.”

“I’m sure Master Ackerley would appreciate the flowers more where they belong,” Bilbo said, but plucked a daisy from the flower bed and handed it over to the boy. “Now off you get, I’ve work to do.”

* * *

Thorin lay in his cot, breathing shallow as Bilbo sat beside him, clinging tightly to his hand.

“You’re going to be fine,” Bilbo repeated as Thorin’s grip became weaker. “Please, Thorin.”

“What a shame,” came a soft voice and Bilbo looked up in surprise, searching the tent for the owner of the voice but found it empty.

Bilbo swore he had heard someone speak. He carefully lay Thorin’s hand back on his chest and cautiously walked towards the tent flaps, pushing them aside and looking at the dwarrows, elves, and men rushing past, most exhausted from the battle.

The guards at Thorin’s tent looked at Bilbo and he smiled sheepishly at them before returning to the interior. He heard a voice. He was sure of it.

“A complete waste,” the voice piped up, deep and slithery, echoing in Bilbo’s ears. He turned around frantically seeing no one, but feeling something akin to a hand falling onto his shoulder. Bilbo stiffened under the touch as the voice continued:

“Gone before his time. The Valar had plans for that one.”

“Who’s there,” Bilbo asked, a tingle running up his spine. The hair on his arm stood at attention and a prickling pinched at the points of his ears. “Show yourself.”

“I can save him,” the voice said.

Bilbo felt himself freeze. Save Thorin? Was it possible?

“He’s so close to death. But I can stop that. I can make him live again.”

“How?”

A low pitched laugh reverberated through the tent. “What are you willing to give?”

“Anything,” Bilbo replied.

“Anything?”

“Yes,” was Bilbo’s quick response.

The air in the tent suddenly grew heavy as black shadows built before Bilbo, billowing and rising into a manlike shape. Bilbo took a step back, the back of his knees hitting Thorin’s cot. He took hold of his dwarf’s hand, shielding his eyes as the smoke cleared.

Eyes like embers looked down at him in glee as the figure said, “Perfect.”

* * *

He had heard, rather than saw, Mr. Ackerley’s arrival. Thurston’s shouts of joy echoed on the park, causing Bilbo to chuckle under his breath as he pruned the shrubbery. Little Ava’s shrieks soon joined in with her brother’s and Bilbo was certain that the family reunion was going splendidly.

Bilbo wiped his brow with a handkerchief, setting his shears to the side and pulling out his pocket watch. It was half six, nearly time for supper.

He packed his things away, placing his kit in the shed before trudging up to the house, wiping his boots as he stepped into the kitchen, the sweet scent of freshly baked rolls cooling on the table. He was quickly shooed out for a good scrubbing and Bilbo obliged, taking his turn at the water pump, damp curls dripping water as he returned to the house.

“The master wants to see you,” the housekeeper told Bilbo just as he sat down for dinner. “Once you’re done eating, of course.”

Bilbo nodded, swallowing nervously. He hoped that the garden was up to snuff. Supper was a nervous affair as Bilbo wondered why the master of the house would want to see him.

His questions were answered that evening as he stood in Master Ackerley’s study, the fire in the hearth dwindled down to nothing but embers, leaving the room chilled and dark. Bilbo bit his lip nervously, clearing his throat as he waited for some sort of response from the shadowed figure sitting in the oversized armchair before the dying fire.

“You wanted to see me, sir,” Bilbo tried, clammy hands rubbing absently on his rough trousers.

The shadow moved and Bilbo could just make out the sharp profile of his nose, causing Bilbo to take a step back.

No. No, no, it couldn’t be.

“Mister Baggins,” Thorin rumbled, slowly rising from the chair, his familiar form morphing before him. “It is you I have to thank for my garden.”

Bilbo nodded absently. How he wanted to reach out his hand and run his fingers through those wavy locks. How he craved to nuzzle his face into his neck and feel his warm embrace. But this was not his Thorin, just a phantom of his mistakes, he knew this now.

“My wife wrote poetics of your skill and I did not believe her,” he continued, a small smile lighting his harsh features. “I am in your debt.”

“Hardly, sir,” Bilbo murmured. “It is my job, and it pleases me to know you take pleasure in my work. You may repay me with your admiration of the gardens, nothing more, nothing less.”

Thorin looked at him with suspicion before laughing breathily, tension quickly deflating. “You are indeed an odd one, just as Lillith said.”

Bilbo simply nodded. It was unfair. Two times he had run across Thorin, and now he was finally having a conversation, but couldn’t reveal who he truly was. How could he? Thorin was so content with his wife and child.

“It grows late, sir,” Bilbo said. “If I may be excused?”

“Of course,” Thorin assented, nodding his head and turning back to his armchair, sinking slowly into the velvet material .

Bilbo stood in the doorway as an idea came to him. “Would you like me to light the fire, sir?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.

Thorin looked back at him in surprise.

“I know it’s not my place, but the fire is nearly dead and it does not appear that you will be leaving anytime soon,” Bilbo replied, knowing that it was highly likely that Thorin would throw him out of the room for overstepping his bounds.

But Thorin simply nodded, gesturing towards the fireplace and Bilbo offered him a smile.

* * *

Bilbo was snuggled warmly in his bed when he was awoken by the fire bell. One moment he was back in Bag End, serving Thorin a slice of apple pie, freshly made, and the next he was watching as flames licked at the brick mortar of the manor.

He stood in the garden in his night shirt along with the stable hands, the only other staff that didn’t live within the manor proper, eyes taking in the horror.

Thurston stumbled out of the manor, his mother by his side, faces and clothes covered in ash. The rest of the staff followed and Bilbo could do nothing but gape dumbly.

Where was Thorin?

Bilbo’s blood ran cold and he knew then he was dead.

Was this his fate? Was this truly his punishment? Was it not torturous enough to watch him die once, but over and over again? Was the Valar so cruel?

He bit back his scream and turned away from the dying house, walking off the property, not caring where he ended up, as long as it was as far away as possible. If he had to live as a recluse, so be it.

But he couldn’t stand it any longer. He would not risk the chance of watching Thorin’s death once more. He was old, and he was tired.


	3. Chapter 3

**1915**

Thorin tried to ease his breathing, small waves of water vapor billowing out of his nose as he hid in the bushes, watching the soldiers march away.

He had been as happy as everyone else the day war was declared, but he was still a boy, he knew that now. How eager he had been to lie about his age, to put on the uniform, bleak as the sky above. How ready he thought he was to kill the enemy.

Yet he had found none in sight.

He had asked his fellow soldiers, “Why do we fight?”

“For Germany!” they crowed.

It was no longer a valid reason. Their pride would be their downfall.

He was only seventeen years old. He had a brother, not yet thirteen, a sister barely eight; a widowed mother. He was the only one who could support them and here he was, in the trenches, face and clothes muddied, nearly starving and twitching at every sound of gunfire.

Thorin wasn’t going to do this any longer.

Just a few months, they had said. And he had believed them. But it was nearly two years and Thorin had an obligation to his family.

He was getting out now before they realized he was gone. They’d be stuck three feet deep in mud some hundred miles from here before someone even noticed.

He had made few friends.

Thorin hid in the bushes for hours, legs numbed and stomach growling for food, but he moved for nothing, leaving the safety of his hiding spot for the cover of night.

It wasn’t the best way to travel, but it was all he had, traveling perhaps three miles or so every night, taking care to stay out of view of the main road, scavenging the bushes and trees for food. Every morning he’d find someplace to hide and rest, usually a cave or a bush.

That morning, Thorin could find nowhere to hide but a small barn behind a cottage on a hill, the door opened slightly, just enough room for Thorin to squeeze in and hide within the hay.

It was perhaps the warmest and most comfortable place he had hidden thus far.

He piled on the hay, burrowing within the stack and drifted off to sleep, thinking only of home and how close he was.

* * *

Wars were silly business of men and Bilbo found in highly inconvenient that his entire livelihood was derailed by pompous men with mustaches unable get along.

He had settled in a small cottage as far from civilization as possible, somewhere in France because the way he saw it, the further from the source of his problem, the better.

Though Bilbo should have known that running away did little to solve his problems. He should have seen it coming, but it was still a surprise when he found a young soldier hiding in his barn, and not any soldier, a German!

Bilbo nearly stumbled over his feet in his panic to leave. If he had a German soldier here, well who knew how far away the rest of his comrades were. They could be just over the hill, for all he knew.

He crept forward, brushing hay away from the sleeping man’s face only to find he was not a man at all. Why he was practically a child still, the uniform barely fitting him.

The boy opened his eyes and Bilbo let out a shout, falling backwards as the boy scrambled out of the hay, gathering his pack and running towards the doors, but Bilbo knew that face and he couldn’t stop himself from calling out, “Thorin!”

Thorin froze, hand reaching out for the barn doors, gasping in every breath. He turned to look at Bilbo, eyes filled with fear. He opened his mouth and… spoke German. Right.

“I don’t understand you,” Bilbo muttered to himself. Oh dear. Perhaps… well he didn’t know German, that’s for sure. And he doubted Thorin knew any English. Why was everything so complicated?

He slowly stood from the ground, arms extended forward, hands up in a placating symbol. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Bilbo said softly. “I promise. Are you hungry? Food?” He mimed shoveling his face with food and pretended he didn’t hear the rumble coming from the soldier’s stomach.

Thorin was still tense as he nodded, but stepped away from the door. He could clearly tell Bilbo was no threat.

* * *

He sat at the man’s kitchen table, a bowl of soup before him and it took all of his willpower not to scarf the food down, having lived off of forest food for days. The man was chattering politely, a pleasant smile on his face.

Thorin didn’t quite understand what he was saying, but he wasn’t going to pass up a free meal. Besides, the worst the man could do was report him to some authority, and then he’d be locked up. A prisoner of war.

It would take him off his route and away from his family for much longer than he liked, but at least it didn’t mean death. Were he a German citizen, well Thorin would not have stopped when he called his name.

And that was something else Thorin wanted to know. How had he known his name? It wasn’t as if Thorin were a popular name.

The man, Baggins, he said his name was, or so Thorin assumed that was what he meant, sat down across from him and smiled.

 Thorin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. What did this man want from him?

* * *

That night, Thorin tried to sneak out of the cottage, but was caught by Bilbo who was sipping tea in the kitchen.

“You shouldn’t run away,” Bilbo scolded. “You’ll only find trouble out there.”

If only Bilbo knew how wrong he was.

The next morning he heard the soldiers before he saw them.

His pantry emptied as he was held back, his food, his clothes, his pots and pans, everything he owned was taken by the German soldiers, and all Bilbo cared for was that Thorin was able to hide. He couldn’t live knowing that he had failed Thorin again.

But it was not to be as he saw Thorin being dragged out from his hiding spot in the cellar, the Germans shouting at him, standing him up and pointing their guns at him, bayonets gleaming in the sun.

“No!” Bilbo shouted, rushing towards Thorin but was grabbed by a soldier, the butt of his gun meeting his head.

When he awoke he could still smell the blood that stained his azaleas.

* * *

**1942**

Bilbo had volunteered when war was declared.

He knew know that war wasn’t another man’s fight, but his own. So off he marched to war, just like the other good boys and men; and in each of them he saw Thorin.

Could he have stopped his death, perhaps, but now he was fighting so boys like Thorin wouldn’t have to. If he accomplished any good deed, that would be it.

But like most of Bilbo’s good intentions, it was short lived. For three years after he was sent off, given a gun to hold and a pack to carry along the coast of France, he was shot.

He awoke slowly, as if from a dream, a faded reminder of another medical tent, housing the dwarf he had once loved. And who should he see but Thorin himself, leaning over him, a look of concern in his eyes.

“How do you feel?”  he asked, checking the chart hanging on the edge of Bilbo’s cot.

Bilbo just blinked, staring up at the visage before him. Thorin was older now, middle aged, and had grey at the temples, just as Bilbo remembered him, though his hair was shorter, and Thorin had never had such tired eyes.

“Don’t need to rush yourself,” Thorin continued, putting a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder and keeping him down when he attempted to sit up. “That bullet went right through you. I’m surprised you’re alive.”

Bilbo felt a faint ache in the center of his chest and let his fingers graze his sternum, finding gauze taped down. He looked up at Thorin in surprise. “Missed your lungs, your heart, didn’t even break a rib. You’ll stay here for a few days, to make sure infection doesn’t start in.”

He gave Bilbo a tired smile before handing his clipboard to the nurse and going to the soldier missing an arm in the cot beside him.

He was alive.

He remembered how it felt to drown in his blood, the numbness that began in his fingers and spread to the rest of his body, the sudden drop of temperature.

He had died, sure as he was breathing now.

How Bilbo hated it.

A few years after the fire Bilbo had gone to a dark place, hiding himself away and trying to forget the heart broken wails of Thorin’s widow, the cries that chased him in the night.

He had wanted to end the torment. Never aging, seeing the man he loves die over and over – if he couldn’t go in a natural way, then he’d take his own life.

He had boarded up his house and tied a rope to the roof beam, gulping as he thought of that rope tightening over his neck. But the pain in his heart was so much worse.

And as he tightened the noose, that was his only thought; that the suffering would end.

When he awoke, he was dangling from the ceiling, feet kicking the air, completely unable to breathe. He was suffocating, but couldn’t die.

It was torture.

He managed to cut himself free, falling to the floor with a crash, heaving in lungfuls, neck sore and leaving a red mark for weeks.

That was his first attempt.

He threw himself in front of horses, automobiles (when they came about), off cliffs and bridges, cut himself, shot himself – to no avail.

His immortality was everlasting, a curse upon a curse, and how Bilbo hated it. He tried, oh how he tried to move on, pretend he wasn’t from another world, another time, another life. He acted as if he was a country gentleman, or a member of the urban bourgeoisie. He pretended to be British, French, once he play acted as a Spaniard, much to his own amusement.

But in every life, in every instant he became comfortable, there was Thorin.

There were times when Bilbo wanted nothing more than to kill him himself. How simple would it be. It’s his eternal fate, and what if Bilbo helped? Nothing wrong against that.

But that would only make him a monster. And he couldn’t harm a single hair on Thorin’s body. It would only bring him more agony.

He was not surprised at his survival, but he was concerned with how Thorin would meet his demise.

The clock had begun ticking and Bilbo didn’t know how long the clock was wound. Any second the ticker would stop and Thorin would be nothing more than a cold corpse six feet underground.

“Are you alright?” Thorin asked, looking at Bilbo in concern as his breathing became labored, his heart pounding so loud in his chest he was certain that Thorin could hear it.

He didn’t want him to die. _Don’t go,_ he wanted to yell. He wanted to grab Thorin’s hand and pull him close. _You’re mine, please don’t go_.

Bilbo did nothing but nod helplessly as he gasped for air, clutching his blankets tightly.

“Nurse,” Thorin barked as he sat on Bilbo’s dirty cot and put a reassuring hand on his forehead. “What’s wrong?”

The whole world was wrong. “Doctor,” the nurse stuttered out. “What should I – ”

“They always give me the new girls,” Thorin muttered under his breath. “Go be useless somewhere else,” he barked.

The nurse quickly obeyed as Thorin looked Bilbo in the eyes and asked him to breathe, to match his breathing, blue eyes reassuring him that everything was okay. But it wasn’t. It was never okay. He couldn’t let Thorin out of his sight.

If he so much as left his side, Bilbo was certain he’d die.

“Don’t leave,” Bilbo whispered, tears streaming down his face. “Please.”

The look on Thorin’s face was evident that he didn’t want to, most likely frightened and confused by Bilbo’s reaction, but he simply nodded, saying, “Alright.”

It was an hour later that Bilbo succumbed to exhaustion and Thorin was free to look after his other patients.

When Bilbo awoke, he had been moved to another ward, and Thorin was nowhere to be found.


	4. Chapter 4

**1968**

Thorin awoke one morning with a sudden ache in his heart.

It was as if before now he was simply wasting away, living his life blind, and then suddenly his eyes saw color and the air smelled of pine and ash, reminding him of someone he had once loved.

He had forgotten.

How did he forget?

He had been in love once, and how ardently he loved, though he was a fool and a failure. Even now, he felt remorse and regret. He had harmed the one man he had ever loved. Treated him less than he deserved, and still he had come to his side and forgiven him.

Bilbo. He remembered him now. Remembered every moment of their journey, his betrayal (but it was not Bilbo’s that Thorin thought of, but his own), and his death, a slow, fleeting exhale pulled from his lungs and nothing more.

He was a miner, like his father, and his father, and his father before that. His whole life revolved around the Iron Hills, and even now he realized why that name felt familiar. Not so much a home, but a temporary fixture.

Bilbo was out there, Thorin could feel it in his bones, and he couldn’t waste his time, his life, digging up iron. He needed to find Bilbo. He needed to hold him once again, reunited himself with the man he loved.

* * *

London was busy.

He knew it would be, but there was something so very… unnerving about the hustle and bustle. Men in gray suits and women in their perfect dresses, not a hair out of place.

And then there were others like him, without a place to rest his head, no food to fill his belly or money in his pockets. He was staying at a boarding house, a rundown place that gave him a room for helping out the grocer, lifting heavy boxes, making deliveries, and helping old ladies with their shopping.

For a free room, Thorin would probably do just about anything.

Not that things were blissful. He still had that niggling feeling at the back of his mind.

Bilbo. Bilbo. Bilbo.

He had to look for him. That’s why he had come. But something always came up.

Mrs. Radburn’s oven stopped working. Mr. Radburn’s shop flooded. He had to break up a fight in the street. The children in the house found a stray cat and wanted Thorin to help take care of him.

But as much as he felt he had to look for Bilbo, Thorin had the feeling that if he waited, Bilbo would come to him. As if it was their destiny to meet again.

So he kept walking Mrs. Tripp’s groceries to her home and slipping Bucket treats when it was his turn to watch him, knowing that soon he’d meet Bilbo.

These were times he’d think of all the things he’d say. An apology would be at the forefront, quickly followed by a deep, heartfelt, confession of love. Then he’d whisk Bilbo away where the two of them could live out their lives.

Perhaps they’d move to the seaside. Thorin had always wanted to see the ocean. Or, knowing Bilbo’s own love for the Shire, they could have a little cottage in the countryside, no one around for miles.

It was these thoughts that distracted him from the danger.

There was a strange young man living in the boarding house as well. A tall, large man with horrible scars on his face. On the whole, he seemed like an upright citizen.

He kept mainly to himself, working as an assistant to the tailor just down the way. He didn’t smile, and kept to himself, but when asked, he would answer questions and always paid the rent on time, so really, Mrs. Radburn had nothing to complain about.

Maybe he didn’t take dinner with the rest of the house, but she wasn’t going to force him into uncomfortable settings.

He had, however, taken an interest in Thorin.

Not in the _let’s become friends_ sort of way. The sort of way where he’d watch him. He’d observe Thorin with his cold eyes, behind blinds and curtains, or in the canned soup aisle at Radburn’s shop. He was practically obsessed.

* * *

Thorin stepped into the alleyway for a smoke, Bucket pawing at his feet, making him chuckle. That old cat was far too needy for its own good. “Alright, B. You hungry?”

“Cats have horrible diseases,” Azog said, scaring Thorin out of his wits. Where had he even come from. “Especially alley cats.”

“He’s alright,” Thorin replied. “Aren’t you Bucket?”

Azog didn’t respond, merely sitting down on a crate, looking out of place in his clean trousers, while Thorin’s own clothes were stained and full of holes.

“You’re Azog, right?” Thorin asked. “Live in the attic.”

“That’s me.”

“Never see you round much,” Thorin said, taking a long drag, slowly breathing out the smoke. He tapped the cigarette against his lip, trying to figure out why he looked so familiar.

Azog shrugged. “I work.”

“We all work for something.”

“What do you work for?” Azog asked, out of the blue, surprising Thorin.

That was an easy enough answer. For Bilbo. But he couldn’t tell that to a stranger. “To pass the time, I suppose,” Thorin answered. It wasn’t a complete lie. “You?”

“To seem normal,” was Azog’s reply.

* * *

Bilbo pulled at his bowtie, the feeling of suffocation growing. He had just had an interview at the library, and though it had gone well, he was certain that they were going to see through his lies. His entire existence was a lie.

Things were so much easier before telephones and crosschecking facts. Before, Bilbo could show up to a place and they’d take his word for it! Now they actually checked to see if his references existed, as opposed to taking his word for it. Now they needed proof of education, and home, and citizenship. They needed so many things that Bilbo had taken for granted before.

How things were changing.

He was passing Mr. Radburn’s shop when he heard it, a sound like the yowl of cat. He stopped in his tracks, turning his eyes to the dark alleyway, seeing nothing there.

He took another step but heard the faint sound of a scuffle.

Was someone fighting?

He really ought to walk away, but there was something urging him to go forward. Someone was probably in trouble in there. Perhaps he could scare them off. Shout, “hey, what are you doing in there?” and they’d get so frightened, the fighting would end.

A perfect idea.

He cleared his throat as he took a step into the alley. “Excuse me!” he called, voice just barely cracking.

And that’s when he saw them.

That face. Bilbo could never forget that face. A rage built within him as he saw the limp body of Thorin, blood oozing out of his wounds as Azog tightened his fingers around his throat.

No!

He was not going to stand for this.

“You fucking bastard!” Bilbo shouted, grabbing a broken piece of wood lying on the ground and smashing it against Azog’s head, knocking him clean out.

Bilbo kicked the man for good measure, scrambling towards Thorin who wheezed, blood gurgling in his throat.

“Fuck. Fuck! Thorin,” Bilbo managed to say, running a hand down his face, wiping the dirt away.

Thorin smiled up at him. “I knew I’d find you,” he muttered. “You’re as beautiful as I remember.”

“Oh, shut up you stupid dwarf,” Bilbo scolded him, tears falling down his face.

“And just as stubborn.”

It only took a few more minutes before Thorin breathed his last breath, slowly fading away under Bilbo’s grasp.

He was gone. Dead. Nothing but a cold corspse.

Bilbo felt his fingers tighten in Thorin’s ruddy shirt.

Dead. He was dead. Again. Again and again and again. How many times? How many god forsaken times? Hadn’t Bilbo suffered enough? Hadn’t he learned his lesson?

When the police came, they had to pull Bilbo off of Azog’s dead body, the ageless man beating him over and over again, blood dripping from his clothes like a man newly baptized.

* * *

**1998**

“Is this seat taken?”

Bilbo looked up from his book, only to meet the deep blue eyes of one Thorin Durin. He held up his coffee, as if pleading his case, his worn leather briefcase under his arm.

Oh Yavanna, he was beautiful. With his large, rounded glasses perched down his nose and the sleeves of his button up shirt rolled up, revealing his strong forearms. Bilbo could only nod dumbly, moving his bag from the seat across from him.

“Thanks,” Thorin said, setting his bag on the floor and stretching out his long legs. “Everywhere else was taken.”

“It’s perfectly alright,” Bilbo replied, turning back to his book, unable to concentrate. Thorin was sitting across from him, sipping coffee and… what was he doing? Grading papers? He was a teacher!

That was absolutely delightful!

Bilbo had tried dipping his toes into teaching for a few years, and he quite enjoyed it. But then, as it usually happened, time flew and he aged not a day.

“God, you’d think they were still in primary,” Thorin muttered, rubbing at his temples in frustration, pen in his mouth.

“Pardon?” Bilbo replied.

Thorin looked up at him in surprise and smiled. “Sorry. Talking to myself. Bad habit.”

“I do it myself,” Bilbo said. “Never in public though.”

Thorin chuckled. “Yes, well that’s why my family doesn’t let me leave the house. They’re all afraid everyone will realize I’m mad.”

“We’re all a bit mad,” Bilbo answered.

“Thorin Oakland,” he introduced, holding out his hand, elbow hitting the café window.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Bilbo blurted out, taking comfort in Thorin’s strong grip, trying to control his emotions. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but he was certain that the minute Thorin left his table, it would only see the end of him.

They sat at the table for an hour, Thorin revealing that he was actually a philosophy grad student, teaching a class on Spinoza.

“Of course, I’m just a guest lecturer,” Thorin told him. “But the ridiculous things these kids say. Makes me wonder if the actual professor even knows what philosophy is.”

“What do you think of reincarnation?” Bilbo asked, seemingly out of nowhere. “Soul mates?”

“What?”

“ Do you think it’s possible? Plausible?”

Thorin raised a brow but said nothing, clearly thinking. “Well…” he started, the words forming in his mind. “The soul isn’t exactly tangible. But there’s reports of people living multiple lives, remember who they were. There has to be a reason, I think, for a person to be reincarnated. Perhaps something they didn’t achieve in a former life.

“Aristotle said that love is a single soul inhabiting two bodies. And if souls exist, then I suppose soul mates could as well. There are people that are just so compatible, it’s like they’re one person split in two. And it doesn’t have to be lovers.

“Close friends. Family members. People who are in perfect harmony with one another.

“If one soul lives on, perhaps reincarnation could be plausible. This is assuming, of course, that in our imaginary scenario, soulmates and reincarnation exist and correlate with another. Reincarnated to be reunited.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Bilbo said.

Thorin smiled. “I think so.”

* * *

A week later Bilbo picked at his slice of strawberry cake as Thorin pulled out the chair in front of him and asked, “Is this spot available?”

Bilbo could do nothing but gape. He was there. He was alive!

“Thorin,” he breathed, just barely stopping himself from reaching out and touching Thorin to make sure he was real.

“Bilbo,” he greeted with a smile. “I thought you’d be here.”

_What are you doing here? Why are you alive!_ was what Bilbo wanted to say, but he held his tongue, not trusting himself to reveal his secret.

Thorin should be dead.

He always died.

“Hi,” Bilbo croaked, clearing his throat.

“Not to be presumptuous,” Thorin said, “but I thought you wouldn’t mind.” He motioned to the other tables which were empty. It was late, and nearing closing.

“Not at all,” Bilbo reassured him. “You scared me, was all.”

* * *

Every Thursday, at approximately 3:30, Thorin would come in and ask Bilbo, “May I sit here?” and Bilbo would agree and they’d talk about their lives, while their coffee and tea got cold.

Sometimes they’d sit there for hours, and Thorin would stretch with a groan and offer to buy dinner, which Bilbo would always decline.

He didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to see it. This was just a trick. Any second and Thorin would vanish into smoke, simply a figment of his imagination.

Was he so desperate that he’d imagine a happy ending? He didn’t deserve one. Death and sadness was his only gift, his only reward. He knew that now.

“I’m starving,” Thorin groaned. “You hungry?”

Bilbo shook his head, ignoring the hunger pains that hit him. He wasn’t going to fall prey to this trap. Perhaps Thorin didn’t believe in reincarnation (or maybe he did, it was so hard to tell), but Bilbo knew for a fact that it was real. He lived it enough times to know.

He was going to die soon, and Bilbo didn’t want to be there when it happened. Not like last time.

(Mental health facilities were nothing to laugh at, especially when they thought you were insane, unstable, and capable of killing a man with just his hands, which he had done, but they would have too if they’d seen their most beloved person being murdered)

“Starving,” Bilbo found himself saying.

They ate at a pizzeria just down the street, laughing over the antics of Thorin’s students, Bilbo educating Thorin on the intricacies of a museum.

It was as Bilbo made to grab a cab, Thorin opting instead for the tube, that Thorin grabbed Bilbo’s elbow and placed a soft kiss on his mouth, barely touching him.

Bilbo gasped, eyes wide as Thorin took a step back, shrugging shyly. “I didn’t misread you, did I?” he asked.

“No,” Bilbo answered. “I – just wasn’t prepared. That’s all.”

“Are you prepared now?” Thorin asked, to which Bilbo simply nodded, grabbing hold of the lapels on Thorin’s coat and enjoying the sensation of Thorin’s lips on his own.

_Just once,_ Bilbo thought. _Just this once, live._

When they pulled apart, Thorin ran his fingers through Bilbo’s curls, taking off his own hat and putting it on Thorin. “I’ll see you next week?” Thorin asked.

“Yes,” Bilbo said. “I’ll save our table.”

He waved goodbye, hurrying off to catch his train and Bilbo felt like he was walking on air. Perhaps this time he wouldn’t die. It had been weeks. Months even. Surely there was a time limit.

When Bilbo returned to his flat, he threw off his coat and turned on the radio, humming along to the music as he readied himself for a shower.

“There’s been an accident on the Underground, just outside the Alperton Station. Five injuries have been reported, and one death. There was a – ”

Bilbo shut off the radio, a towel wrapped around his shoulders.

When Bilbo showed up to their usual spot that Thursday, there was no Thorin. Nor the next week, or the week after that.

He stopped going altogether.  


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LAST CHAPTER. I'M GONNA GO SEE THE BOTFA NOW. *CRIES FOR A THOUSAND YEARS*  
> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed the fic :)

**Present Day**

“Go away,” Thorin said, closing the door on the brothers standing in his doorway.

Every day for the past two months, Balin and Dwalin came to his office, begging him to look at their research, their proof.

They were insane.

A few years back Balin had stumbled across a newspaper article on the trial of one Bilbo Baggins, accursed of one Azog DeVille. He pleaded innocent, claiming self defense, but later changed his plea to guilty, citing it as an act of passion.

The story was he had come across Azog murdering one Thorin Darrow. In an attempt to save Thorin, he had beat him off of, but continued to beat him to death, despite his unconsciousness.

He was sentenced to fifteen years in prison, lasting only two of them before he was transferred to a medical prison, the warden claiming that he was mentally unstable. After six months, he committed suicide.

That was all very sad, but it was the picture of Thorin that drew in Balin.

He had come across another photograph of another Thorin, this one by name of Oakland, who died in an accident on the Tube a few years back. He looked exactly like the murdered Thorin.

And he looked exactly like that private detective who had set up shop on the corner of Oak Street.

So he researched a little more, and brought in his brother, and together they found six other instances in which Thorin died, each time a Bilbo Baggins involved. It was far too obvious to be a coincidence.

Thorin called them crazy conspiracy theorists, weird brothers obsessed with him. Balin and Dwalin considered themselves… concerned. What if he happened to run into this Bilbo Baggins all over again? If they were to go off the pattern, Thorin would end up dying, and they rather liked Thorin.

Even if he did have a habit of kicking them out of his office.

Dwalin opened the door and threw himself into a chair, ignoring the scowl on Thorin’s face.

“You deaf as well as ugly?” Thorin asked as he scrolled through his emails, deleting the cases he wasn’t remotely interested in.

“Who you calling ugly?” Dwalin asked, dodging the punch Balin threw at him.

“He was buried,” Balin said as a conversation starter. “Baggins hung himself at the hospital, and they buried him.”

“I think he’s a vampire.”

Thorin let his head crash onto his desk. Every. Single. Day. “Why can’t we just talk about sports, like normal people?”

“Catch that Manchester game?”

“No,” Thorin blurted out. “Get out. Now.”

Dwalin laughed, slapping his hand on Thorin’s desk. “We think we’ve found his place of employment,” Dwalin continued. “Some tiny antique shop just south of here.”

“I don’t think he’s a vampire,” Balin said. “I think maybe he can regenerate.”

“One day,” Thorin groaned. “I just want one day.”

“He could just be immortal,” Dwalin mused. “Or reincarnated. We’re pretty sure you’re a reincarnation.”

“Are you two done?” Thorin asked. “I’ve had my daily dose of idiocy today and I’d like to actually get to work.”

* * *

Bilbo looked up in surprise as the bell above his shop door rung, staring back at two familiar faces. He didn’t even know they were alive.

Had his curse affected others? Was Thorin not the only person to die and come back? How had he met none of the other company until now?

“Hello?” Balin called, fingers punching down a key on an old typewriter. “Anyone here?”

“What if we’re wrong?” Dwalin asked, staring down a wooden rocking horse.

“Good morning!” Bilbo called out, trying to contain his emotions. How he missed those faces. Seeing Thorin’s face was always a mixed blessing, but to see his old friends? That was truly a good omen. It had to be.

Balin smiled at him as he and his brother approached the counter. “Are you Mr. Baggins?” he asked.

Bilbo nodded slowly.

“Are you a vampire?” Dwalin asked, getting a good elbow to the stomach from Balin.

“What?!”

“Don’t mind my brother. He was dropped on the head as a child,” Balin reassured Bilbo. “We were just wondering if you recognize this man.”

He pulled a picture of Thorin (from the murder trial, though he had a few of their detective and from his time in the war) out of his wallet, placing it on the counter, closely watching Bilbo for a hint.

Bilbo held back his shock and simply stared down at the photograph, eyebrows pinched forward as pretended to study it. He had barely known that Thorin, only recognizing him after he had stopped breathing, his cold eyes staring back at him. “I’m sorry,” Bilbo replied. “But I don’t know this man. Should I?”

“Vampire,” Dwalin whispered.

“That’s quite alright, laddie,” Balin said, pocketing the photo. “I must have you mixed up with someone else, that’s all.”

He pulled Dwalin by the elbow and out of the shop, leaving Bilbo alone to stew.

They knew.

They had to know.

He smiled and waved at them as they disappeared before rushing towards the door and locking it, turning his “open” sign to “closed.” He had to get out of there.

What if Thorin showed up?

* * *

“He’s gone,” Dwalin said two days later, interrupting Thorin as he informed his client that yes, his wife was cheating on him, and no, that child isn’t yours, sorry about that.

Thorin glared at him, looking pointedly at the distraught man in the seat before him. “Busy,” Thorin said.

“He’s up and left,” Balin stated as he marched into the room himself.

Honestly, Thorin was going to have to lock his door. These interruptions were bad for business.

“Mr. Carson,” Thorin said. “Perhaps we can continue our conversation at a later date?”

The man gone, and most of Thorin’s patience, Balin and Dwalin laid it all out for him.

They had gone to look for this Bilbo Baggins, and found him they did. He looked a bit panicked when they showed him Thorin’s picture, but masked it well. He was pleasant and warm. Then they came back the next day and the place is closed, a sign stating that he’d be gone for a few weeks on the door.

“Stop harassing the man,” Thorin told them.

“You specialize in finding people,” Dwalin said. “Find him.”

“Didn’t you say everytime I was around him I died?” Thorin asked. “Seems a bit counterproductive. I enjoy living, thanks.”

“We’ll pay you,” Balin insisted.

* * *

Bilbo Baggins was very good at hiding, Thorin thought to himself as he watched the man check into a cheap motel for the evening. But Thorin was good at his job. Plus technology made it a heap load easier.

It was a bit like spying on cheating husbands and finding lost pets.

Wow. His job really sucked. First thing in the morning he’d join an actual police force, rather than slinking in back alleyways.

Though the pay was probably worse.

It really was a bit of a catch-22 wasn’t it? Was that even the right use of that phrase? He’d have to ask his sister about it later.

“Who are you, Mr. Baggins?” Thorin asked himself, stuffing his binoculars into his pocket and digging through the packet of “evidence” the Fundinson brothers had given him.

They were so obsessed it wasn’t even funny.

Bilbo Baggins.

Born in ’79. Orphaned. Went to a small university before purchasing the shop on Plymouth, and had been there for fifteen years or so. Never missed a day of work, was always friendly and kind.

His holiday came as a surprise to his friends and neighbors. He never closed the shop. Ever.

Drugs? A new lover? Trouble with the mafia?

Thorin knew for sure it wasn’t any of these things. Bilbo didn’t do anything with his time, simply going from hotel to hotel, watching crap telly and eating unhealthy hotel food.

So why did he run away?

He rifled through the files, gaping in astonishment at the likeness one of the old photographs. It really did look like him. Exactly like him.

He looked at those of Bilbo (there were only two or three), and they remained identical. His age didn’t even vary.

Dwalin’s voice screaming, “vampire!” popped into Thorin’s mind, but he squashed it down. Vampires didn’t exist.

* * *

He watched him for two weeks before he got out of his car and knocked on Bilbo’s hotel door.

The look of abject terror on Baggins’ face was not reassuring. “Thorin,” he breathed out, dropping his damp towel onto the floor, the water from his recent shower dripping from his flaxen curls.

“Mr. Baggins,” Thorin said, trying to get out his practiced speech.

“Go away,” Bilbo told him, anger rising. “Leave. For your own safety, I beg of you.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Please go,” Bilbo whispered, slamming the door in Thorin’s face, turning the cheap bolt lock.

That… wasn’t suspicious. “Open up.”

“Go away you stubborn idiot,” Bilbo said. “Do you want to die?”

“I was hired by Dwalin and Balin Fundinson,” Thorin said, figuring that since he was here, and he had practiced, he was going to give his speech anyway. “They think you’re a vampire.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard,” Bilbo scoffed.

Thorin was glad he wasn’t the only one. He really needed to find new friends. Preferably ones he liked and didn’t make him do stupid things. “They wanted us to talk.”

“They’re trying to kill you,” Bilbo said.

“I just want to talk.”

“Go away.”

* * *

For two weeks straight, no matter where Bilbo went, Thorin was there, knocking on his door, asking to speak to him. And every day Bilbo locked his door and begged Thorin to leave.

“Why?” Thorin asked. “Tell me. Why do you think I’m going to die?”

“Because you always do,” Bilbo shouted, opening the door, eyes rimmed red. “You always die.”

He reached out his hand, placing it on Thorin’s cheek, his thumb gently caressing his cheekbone. “I’ve seen you die in so many ways, Thorin. Please. Don’t make me watch it again.”

“You’re crazy,” Thorin had said.

Bilbo closed the door on him again.

* * *

“He thinks I’m going to die,” Thorin told Balin and Dwalin. “He legitimately fears for my life.”

“Maybe he’s cursed,” Dwalin said, downing his pint in one swallow. “And you’re cursed too.”

“I’m not cursed.”

“You’re probably cursed.”

New friends. Thorin had to go do that.

“Perhaps if you put yourself in harm’s way, he’d come out and save you,” Balin suggested. “Or you die, but either way, we’ll be proven right.”

* * *

Put himself in harm’s way. Right.

“I’m going to jump,” Thorin said, climbing over the balcony railing. “Don’t think I won’t.”

“Stop being an idiot,” Bilbo replied, not even unbolting the lock on his door.

* * *

“It didn’t work.”

“Because you weren’t actually going to jump. Idiot.”

“I’m the idiot?”

\--

Thorin marched up the Bilbo’s latest hotel room and banged on the door.

Six months. He had followed him for six months and in all that time, he had never once almost died. At least any more than he usually did? He smoked about as often as a fireplace, he drank way too much coffee, and he was probably going to have a heart attack any day now from how much pizza he ate while on a stakeout.

And considering he’d been on a stakeout for six months, his arteries were so clogged, his blood cells needed shovels to get through.

He was tired, and angry, and a little bit underwhelmed. If he was going to die, then damn it, he should die already, because otherwise, he had a bone to pick with Bilbo Baggins.

And that was that he had somehow fallen in love with the man.

There. He said it.

He loved his stupid cardigans and the way the sun hit his hair so it glowed like gold. And yes, he even loved the way Bilbo would go red when he was angry, and how his voice would crack at times when he shouted.

He had had it up to here with the dramatics.

“I’m in love with you,” Thorin greeted with a scowl when Bilbo answered his door. “So you better admit to being a vampire or something, because you’re stuck with me.”

“What in the world are you doing?”

“I’m confessing my love,” Thorin said. “That’s how curses work right? Well I love you. So go back to your shop and give me a rest. Because otherwise, I’m going to do something stupid, like kiss you, and I really don’t want to do that.”

“You’ve no self preservation, do you?” Bilbo asked.

“None whatsoever.”

“You’re going to die.”

“Why is everyone so concerned with this?” Thorin asked, fisting his hair in his hands. “We’re all going to die one day.”

How could he begin to explain. “I promised to do anything to keep you alive.”

“So keep your promise. Stand in front of a bullet if you have to,” Thorin said. “You know, I don’t know if you’re crazy, or I’m crazy, or what. But I love you, Bilbo Baggins. And I’d very much like to know whether you love me back.”

Bilbo nodded and Thorin beamed.

Somewhere, an old spirit smiled. Anything, he had promised. And keep that promise, he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, sorry if it seems a little rushed, i had trouble with the ending :C i just knew i wanted them together. i might go back and fix it at a later date.


End file.
